


my feet are drawn to you

by gaystcr



Category: My Engineer (TV)
Genre: Anger Management, Character Study, Falling In Love, Friendship, M/M, Tenderness, Touch-Starved, hand holding, mlm author
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:07:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24142567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaystcr/pseuds/gaystcr
Summary: And yet, even when he was doing something that felt real, Ram doesn’t remember a time where his fists wouldn’t ache for the thrill of the fight. Maybe it was because all his eyes were trained to see was injustice. Maybe it was because something built up in his chest since he was six years old and he’d never been able to shake it loose. Maybe it was because he never learned what it was like to be at peace, always itching to throw a punch or to kick something down.Ram has been boxing to deal with his anger all his life, in a run-down gym surrounded by ragtag kids that wormed themselves into his heart and became his family. Over the years, his hands have become rough with calluses. But the way King touches him--soft and tender like he's the only person in the world--has him yearning to do the same in return. This is Ram's journey on learning how to let himself be known, allow two worlds merge into one another, and teach himself how to be gentle with rough hands.
Relationships: King/Ram (My Engineer)
Comments: 34
Kudos: 327





	my feet are drawn to you

**Author's Note:**

> hello, my friends! i am back with a 10k ramking fic. these boys have stolen my heart and i just want ram to have good things. i see a lot of myself in ram, especially my anger issues and aggressiveness that used to be prevalent in my personality when i was younger. as ram turned to boxing, i turned to any sport i could get my hands on, mostly karate and basketball. so... this fic sprung out of my consciousness! in this fic, ram has a found family at his gym, his friendship with duen is stellar, and bohnduen are actually healthy. creative freedom, y'know?
> 
> quick disclaimer: i used to box and all of this experience is lifted directly from my gym in india. it might be wrong because we weren't pros, but i did my best to research everything! let me know if something is terribly wrong, though. also, i use 'ai ning' and 'cool boy' interchangeably throughout this fic, don't wonder about that!
> 
> shoutout to my friend [nico](https://transking.tumblr.com) ([here's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaybliss/pseuds/gaybliss) his ao3!) for listening to my rambles about ramking. i hope you enjoy this one, man.
> 
> the title of this fic is from EDEN's newest single, [peaked.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OMr11wokRlw) enjoy, my friends!

The first time Ram slipped on his boxing gloves and squared his shoulders, knees bent in the ring—his body shook as if life was breathed into him.

His childhood seems hazy to him. Before he started boxing, he can only see himself with bunched up fists at the park, six years old and having grown up with a kind of deep vengeance rooted in his body. He’s never been sure where it came from—maybe it was watching his friends, just straying along the back of the word _odd_ like him, and seeing them poked at, laughed at for things they didn’t have under their control; maybe it was seeing his brother, four years younger and the stars in his eyes, being picked on at the sandpit; or maybe it was just because Ram had never learned how to talk to people. He balanced both Thai and English like it was the most effortless thing to do, but he’d always walked alone. At some point, the words started shrinking back into him, slipping out around his mother and his brother but mostly reserved for the dogs he’d take walking every Saturday. He started making appearances at the animal shelter, handing his hand out wordlessly for the leashes, getting down on his knees and scrubbing the floor clean, changing water out. And yet, even when he was doing something that felt _real_ , Ram doesn’t remember a time where his fists wouldn’t ache for the thrill of the fight. Maybe it was because all his eyes were trained to see was injustice. Maybe it was because something built up in his chest since he was six years old and he’d never been able to shake it loose. Maybe it was because he never learned what it was like to be at peace, always itching to throw a punch or to kick something down.

He remembers the day his father sat down across from him as it flashes in front of his eyes, as clear as a stone rippling through water. His father was a man of many words, yet little meaning. But as he had pushed a plate of food towards him and the lilting tunes of the radio in the kitchen had wafted in through the dining room, blood fresh on Ram’s knuckles from the worst fight yet, his father had used his words in a way that mattered. “You need to sort this out,” he had said, first in English, then in Thai, just to drive the point home. The way the chair had rocked back had sent little shockwaves through the ground. “Listen, Ram. I’m going to take you somewhere tomorrow.”

Ram had tilted his head up for him. There were no words needed to say _‘But tomorrow’s a Saturday.’_ His dad had cracked his knuckles and said, “The dogs will survive without you for one day, son. This can’t keep going.”

So the next morning, he had packed himself into the passenger seat of his father’s expensive car, careful not to dirty the floor, and they had taken the high road for twenty minutes before his father had pulled off into a little side road, the tires crunching over the gravel as they pulled up at a shoddy looking gym. Ram remembers blinking up at the sign, cracked and almost hanging off of the front. He had looked up at his father, questions overflowing in his eyes, but all he had done was open the door and swivel into the gym. Ram had stumbled over the last step walking in. The boxing ring was worn down, paint flecks fluttering down from the edges; the bags hanging down from the ceilings in surprisingly good shape for the run-down appearance that the rest of the gym held. One moment his father was next to him, a comforting presence in a world unfamiliar, and the next he was pressing ratty boxing gloves into his hands. Ram was just a kid, so he slipped them on. They were warm, and they fit.

Things just started to shift into place after that. Saturday mornings, he spent at the animal shelter, taking care of the dogs and the cats and every other small, misfit animal that wandered its way through the doors of the shelter. Evenings, he biked the kilometres over to the gym. Ram’s never talked much. But under the faint white lights of the gym and the way he learned to square up his shoulders and bend his knees at just the right angle to throw a good punch, the members of the gym became family. He remembers when he started hanging around the gym more often, teaching the newer kids how to correct their stance to land the punch right. He remembers high school, and the stress of finals week, and sparring in the ring so often it felt like he was about to pass out. He remembers actually passing out, from utter exhaustion and balancing the shelter and the boxing and studying, on the bench with all of his books around him. He remembers a Phi waking him up with a gentle hand, gentler than he thought he could ever be himself, gentler than he thought someone who boxed every day could be. At some point, the head of the gym, P’Bank, invested in a bed for their backroom where Ram could come and sleep if he needed to. He remembers biking in after he’d gotten his university acceptance letter, telling his mother first, and then his brother, and then hopping onto his bike and booking it all the way down to the gym. Normally quiet, silently towering, protective, Ram had turned into the child he left behind in the punches he learned to throw as he flew through the doors, the creak music to his ears, the new paint fresh on the sides of the boxing ring, the sign still as shoddy as ever. He doesn’t remember what he had screamed, but he does remember P’Bank stopping mid-boxing and yelling back, jumping out of the ring to press him into a hug so tight, Ram thought he’d lost his heart in it. He does remember all of the kids crowding around him, curling themselves around his legs. He does remember his letter being passed from hand to hand, smiles so wide they stretched their faces out into something so breathtakingly beautiful.

* * *

Ram doesn’t get into fights that often anymore. But something that’s stayed through the years, even when Duen pulled him in and gave him friends that let him be as quiet as he wants to, is that he goes to the gym whenever he doesn’t know what to do. The thing about Ram is that he’s grown so used to throwing punches that he doesn’t know how to be gentle anymore. 

“N'Ram!” shouts P’Bank from across the gym as he walks in, the tension easing off his shoulders once he sees him. He allows him a small smile as he puts his bag down. P’Bank bounds over to him, beam lighting up his face as he grasps a kind hand around Ram’s forearm. Sometimes Ram forgets that P’Bank is the head of the gym, the way he’s in his late twenties but still acts like a child. “How’s it going, man? Weren’t you here yesterday? Don’t you have homework?”

Ram blinks at the barrage of questions. He turns to wave at one of the kids who thrusts his gym bag into his hands to change into if he feels like it, and pats his head before he dashes away. “I’m doing okay,” he offers to P’Bank, who takes it without comment. He nods and gestures towards the ring.

“Here for you if you ever need it,” he says, and Ram knows he doesn’t just mean the ring. “Go change into your gym clothes and I’ll see if I can get someone to box with you.”

Ram clutches the clothes and ducks into the changing rooms, nodding at the rest of the kids on his way. The breath shudders through his chest thinking about the reason why he made the drive down. The way King touches him—it’s still burned into his skin. Sometimes he envies the way King can just _touch_ him, a fleeting, small sort of thing across his shoulders or a hand on his arm. Gentle. Ram can only clutch him around the wrist and pull him here and there, almost violent in the way he takes him around. He sheds his shirt and trousers, pulling his boxing shorts on. The locker room shrinks onto him, the walls almost pressing against his sides. Nothing’s happened, and yet he’s shaking. He stands up, hanging his clothes up on a peg against the wall and strides over to his locker to grab his gloves out of it. His fingers brush against the photo he’s stuck up of his mother and brother. Somewhere along the way, as his father got busier about undisclosed things and stopped coming to his boxing tournaments as often as he rose through the ranks, Ram simultaneously stopped thinking of him as his hero. When he was younger, his dad was the stars in his eyes. Things change as you get older, Ram’s noticed, as his eyes land on the selfie that Duen took of him and their friends, one of the only candid ones. They’re lying out on the grass just outside of the university, the dogs resting alongside them. Ram’s smiling in the picture. The warmth of the day touches him again, and he pulls the boxing gloves on. Somewhere deep down, he knows why his hands are shaking, but he pushes back the feeling to slam the locker door shut.

“P’Ram!” says one of the younger boys, sticking his head through the door. Ram raises an eyebrow at him. He’s fine with correcting the kids’ stances and helping them angle their elbows right to land the punches on the bags right, but to actually talk with them is something else. “Someone’s here for you!”

Before can Ram can work up the nerve to ask who it is, Duen sticks his head through the door as well, waving at him. The younger boy makes himself scarce as Duen walks into the room, sitting down on the bench. Ram leans back against the lockers, eyes levelled with his.

“What’s been up with you?” asks Duen, cutting straight to the chase. The thing about Duen is that he seems like a pushover sometimes, but everyone close to him knows that he’s stubborn to the bone. “You left so quickly after class today, and you disappeared during break.”

“I’m an adult,” mumbles Ram, crossing his arms against his chest. The words sound hollow, even to his own ears. He can tell Duen is trying really hard to not laugh, but he lets a snicker escape him. “Shut up, Duen.”

Duen ignores him and spreads his hands. “You know, you’ve always been protective of me. I’m just trying to show you that I care as well.”

Ram tries not to show how much that strikes through him. He stays standing at the lockers, but he swallows and he knows Duen notices, because he sits up a little straighter and puts on his thinking face, eyebrows scrunched in an endearing way. He shrugs. “How’d you find the gym?” he deflects.

“Ting Ting,” he replies, and Ram does not need to hear more. Duen sighs. “Hey, I can go if you want me to.”

Something that hasn’t risen up in Ram for years rises up in him again—the need to just slam his hand against the locker to get it _out_. His frustration at not being able to get the words out, not being able to ask King if he wants to go and eat with him rather than being aggressive in the way he touches him wells up in him in a manner that sends _fear_ through his veins. He knows King doesn’t mind, he’s not stupid. He knows the way King looks at him, even if he doesn’t know it himself. Ram doesn’t slam his hand against the locker. Instead, he nods at Duen and forces the words out, “What do you and P’Bohn do?”

Duen chokes on his own spit. “ _What?_ ” he says, trying to collect himself. “You mean, like… when we’re together?”

Ram nods, and it’s a testament to the nature of their friendship that Duen doesn’t ask further, and just gives him a plain response. “I guess… I mean, I bring him flowers every day, and then we go on dates. We talk. I cook for him and we eat dinner together and we sleep in the same bed, sometimes. He gives me his jacket when we go on walks and I’m cold. And… he checks on me when I’m sick. Bohn—he brings me my favourite drink after an exam, or a quiz, or something. He takes care of me. I take care of him.”

Ram swallows. “I—and when you hold hands, how does it feel?”

“It feels right,” says Duen, and his eyebrows scrunch further. “Ram, what’s this about?”

He pushes himself off the lockers, feet scuffing against the ground nervously. Ram’s hands come together almost out of reflex, encased in his gloves and not being able to interlink together in a fit of anxiety. He exhales. The words get stuck in his throat, tumbling over themselves as he swallows them back down. “Just…” he starts, and clears his throat. Duen can be naive, and anxious, and a bit too stuck in his own world, but he’s always given Ram silent support. “I can’t—not right now.”

Duen’s eyes grow impossibly kind. Not out of pity, because he knows Ram hates that, but out of understanding. “Go box then, stupid. What are you waiting for?”

Ram rolls his eyes and grumbles a couple of choice words under his breath, but a smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. For a moment, Ram thinks about showing him the picture in his locker, but he saves that for another day. He isn’t ashamed of the gym, but it’s somewhere he’s spent all his life, every nook and cranny familiar to his eyes, and having Duen see it seems too big for him to hold in the palms of his hands. He doesn’t say a word, opting to head out of the changing rooms and back into the easy, comfortable atmosphere of the gym. He looks up to see P’Bank wave at him from where he’s sitting at the tiny desk in the corner that has been there for all of his time at the gym, where everyone secretly unanimously opted to spend their budget on the bed in the backroom for Ram instead of getting a bigger desk. Ram has to suppress a chuckle as P’Bank turns back to the paperwork, knowing how much he hates it and gets all the little numbers wrong. 

“Ram!” shouts Namtan from where she’s got her hair tied back in a ponytail, sweat sheening on her forehead. She’s new at the gym, choosing to box with Ram since he goes a little harder on the newbies than anyone else. “You wanna get in the ring?”

He shrugs, nodding, and Duen pops up from behind him. He grins at him, all teeth, and Ram knows he’s up to no good. “Can I watch you box?”

“Don’t push it, Duen,” he says quietly, and Duen laughs, head tilting back. It’s in moments like these that Ram grows so impossibly fond of the younger man, no matter their differences in character. Duen was one of his first friends who offered him silent support and trusted that he’d come and talk to him whenever he needed. 

He places a hand on Ram’s forearm, patting him. “I’ll be off, then,” he says. “See you tomorrow, Ram.” He waves and turns on his heel, looking out of place in Ram’s little, run-down gym, two words clashing. Ram always looks after Duen when he leaves, just making sure he goes home safe. When the door swings open as he leaves the gym, Ram catches a glimpse of a car and a familiar figure with his hands in his pockets, earring glinting in the sunlight. Ram inches closer almost unwillingly, blinking as he registers Bohn opening the door for Duen as he gets into the car.

Somewhere, it clicks that Bohn drove him here. That he waited for this long for Duen to talk with him, despite their differences. As Ram sheds his gloves to warm up, he thinks maybe Bohn isn’t so bad after all.

* * *

“We,” says P’Bank, pulling him into the backroom and making Ram sit on the bed, “need to talk.”

He pulls a chair up to the bed as Ram pushes himself back against the wall. There’s a fresh wound on his forehead and scrapes on his knuckles, his knees split open. His hands are shaking like they haven’t in years, transforming him back into just a little kid, when P’Bank was just fresh in university and ended up taking the ownership of the gym. He pulls his knees up to his chest. P’Bank leans forward on his knees, elbows balanced.

“You got into a fight?” he asks, voice impossibly gentle. P’Bank is a strong guy. Ram knows first-hand, from the number of times he’s lost against him in the ring. Something recoils in his chest when he hears him being this gentle, like it’s easy to switch from hammering his own anger issues out against the boxing bag to taking care of everyone in the gym, knowing all of their pizza orders off by heart. 

Ram shrugs. “It’s nothing,” he mumbles.

“Who patched you up?” asks P’Bank, and Ram’s fists close, bending in on themselves for his scrapes to bulge against the air. He settles himself against the wall, against the same ratty old blanket that one of the older Phis gave him years ago. Ram’s grown in leaps and bounds, but he’s still here with scrapes on his knuckles on the bed like a little kid again. The memory flashes in front of his eyes, something from yesterday.

_“Ai Ning?” asks a familiar voice from above him. Ram’s breath is caught in his chest, the fight having taken the life out of him. He had collapsed against the first bench he’d seen, the night already falling outside the university. He looks up to see King, who’s obviously out and about during this time and brushing the hair out of his eyes. The breath in his chest is caught for a completely different reason now. “What’re you doing out here?”_

_Ram tries to open his mouth to say anything, but as he shifts against the bench, a shoot of pain strikes through his upper chest. He gasps louder than he needs to, holding a hand to it, and King sits down next to him. He pulls Ram’s hand away from his chest, having it fall to the side as he uses a gentle hand to tilt Ram’s face up, hissing through his teeth when he sees the open wound right underneath Ram’s eye. “Shit,” he says, moving his hand before Ram passes out not from the pain, but from the pure fire in his veins that sprouts from King’s mere presence next to him. His hand on his chin, his thumb brushing against his skin like it’s something he knows how to do. Ram aches with the want to be able to reciprocate. “Come back with me, let me patch you up.”_

_He hauls Ram up slowly, one hand curling around his waist and the other tugging Ram’s arm around his shoulder, so he can support him as they walk back to King’s dorm, thankfully close. Wherever King touches him, it seems so soft, like his hands could melt into Ram’s skin if he left them there long enough; like they were meant to cause little divets in Ram’s skin; like they were meant to hurt more and yet heal more than any punch he’s taken or given. He swallows as King grips harder at his waist, thumb brushing against him again, sending shivers through Ram’s skin. He clears his throat. “You… not gonna ask me what happened?” he says, trying very hard not to tremble._

_“I don’t need to,” says King, smile as ever-present as always. “You probably saw someone younger or weaker getting hurt and stepped in because you’re a hero, Ai Ning. Too much of a hero, sometimes.”_

_Hero. Ram’s never really thought of himself as one, and he knows he isn’t. Hearing the word spill from King’s lips, with his arm around him and with the way he’s cared for him these past few weeks—King talking to him and making him little study plans with cute Post-It-Notes with messages like ‘You got this! — King <3’ and giving him plants and offering him a source of comfort—makes Ram actually tremble. He wants to ask what King means, but he can’t open his mouth. Turns out he doesn’t need to, because King takes one look at him and says, “You need to take care of yourself.”_

_He smiles at Ram before he digs his keys out of the pocket like he just hasn’t said something earth-shattering, blowing Ram’s world off its axis. He fumbles with the keys before clicking the door open, hauling Ram over the line and into the elevator, both exhaling as they hit the back of it. Ram reaches out to press the button to King’s floor. Although he’s against a wall and can hold himself steady, King’s arm is still gripped around his waist, brushing the hair out of his eyes. It’s been minutes, but as they pass floors, Ram clears his throat and says, “I’m… I’m trying to.”_

_“Hey,” says King, as the doors slide open. Ram can’t hold eye contact with him. “It’s okay. I’ll take care of you tonight, Cool Boy.”_

_Ram’s eyes snap up to King’s, who is wearing an expression he’s never seen on him before, before he breaks eye contact and tugs Ram out of the elevator. Ram has his heart in his throat as they limp towards King’s room, pushing the door open for the plants to greet them as Ram hobbles over to collapse on the sofa. The plants rustle quietly as King flutters his fingers against the leaves, checking in on the soil before dipping into his bedroom and digging around in the cupboards for God knows what. Ram winces as he links his fingers together, the air piercing his wounds as he dwells on King’s words, ringing through his head again and again like a bell refusing to stop. He can barely think about King’s hands on his chin, on his waist, skittering on his clothes like he knows something about Ram that he himself doesn’t. Before he can think about the way King’s hands press into his sides like they’re at home, King stumbles back out, grin wide on his face as he holds a first aid kit up._

_“Found it!” he says, like a kid in a sweet shop. He sits next to Ram, leaning into the couch with a sigh. “It pays to have med major friends, right?” He clicks open the box, popping some disinfectant solution open and dropping some onto a little piece of cotton. He uses his hand to tilt Ram’s chin up, frowning at his wounds. “This is gonna hurt, okay?”_

_He dabs at the wound as Ram hisses through his teeth. “It’ll sting for two seconds and then it’ll be okay,” says King under his breath, the cotton almost catching in his wound, but King brushes it away before it can. “Sorry.”_

_“S’okay,” says Ram, slipping out before he can control them. From the outside, Ram doesn’t look or seem… fragile, in any way. His shoulders are squared, back straight, something left over from his boxing days, something he still is learning. If you look scary and strong enough, people don’t talk to you. He knows he’s built well, slender but tough, tall enough to be intimidating. There’s a duality to everything though, isn’t there? Sometimes it is as if the world is too big for him, and he’s only holding on to everyone else by the tips of his fingers. The tips of King’s fingers, now, are sweeping against his face like there is nothing else in the world he would rather be giving attention to. In the same way his hands take care of his plants, making sure the moisture in the soil is at the right level, that all the leaves are growing well, trimming wherever he needs to—he cleans Ram’s wounds, attentively. Like everything he does with Ram, it’s a hundred percent. “Ai Ning, do you want to go to the hospital?”_

_Ram shakes his head minutely, and King puts the old swab of cotton away to pull off a new one, dousing it with disinfectant solution again. “Can you take off your shirt?” he asks, and the heat rises up Ram’s chest, a red flush spreading. “Just to check for blood.”_

_King has seen him shirtless before, back during the fight he had with Bohn where they both ended up knocking each other out, but the blood still rushes to Ram’s cheeks as he shrugs off the shirt anyway. He holds his hand out for the cotton swab expectantly, but King pushes him away. “Told you I would take care of you,” he murmurs, swiping at the specks of blood on his chest. Ram flinches back involuntarily. “Stay still.”_

_Ram hisses again as King dabs at a particularly nasty wound on his chest, dropping it back into the first aid kit. “All done,” he says, pressing a Spider-Man Band-Aid to his wound on his chest. He smiles up at him, like he’s not just done something that nobody else has ever done for him. “You even get a cool Band-Aid out of it!”_

_Emotion chokes up in his throat. “Thank you,” he says quietly, fingers itching to reach out and touch King in any way he knows how. “I—I’ll go back now.”_

_King shushes him, already up and cutting like a blade through the air to rustle in the cupboard. “Stay here tonight, I’ll sleep on the couch. Have you eaten? I’m a disaster in the kitchen but I’ve got a packet of instant noodles lying around somewhere.”  
_

_He stands up proudly, brandishing an extra blanket that he bounds over with. Ram is suddenly filled with this kind of affection that he can’t put a name to, can’t embody in a way he wants to. King rambles on about the plants as they drift towards the kitchen. Ram watches on from the dining table as King clatters around with the pots in the clearly little-used kitchen as he puts too much water in the noodles and they end up having to wait for way too long at the table, Ram having to hold in his laughs as King regales him with childhood stories. They go over Ram’s study plan while eating the noodles, King scooting his chair close up next to him, an arm meandering up over his shoulders to pull him into him a little more. Ram doesn’t think his breath has caught in his chest so heavily. His hand is soft. Ram’s own are rough from years of boxing. Either way, once they start winding down and King has put the plates in the sink to wash up tomorrow, Ram had overridden him, a light feeling, and washed them himself. When King sits down on the couch, curling up against the extra pillow, Ram finds his voice in the hollow of his throat and says, very quietly, as if he’s afraid to break something, “The bed’s big enough for both of us.”_

_King’s eyes grow wide, speechless for the first time all evening. “Wh—do you want me to sleep with you in the bed?”_

_“Big enough for both of us,” repeats Ram, his mind stuck on the fact with the gravity of what he’s just said, not knowing how King sleeps, on his side or on his back on his front; how many blankets he sleeps with normally; if he rolls around. He looks down at King, who has a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth._

_“Are you sure?” he asks, soft. Ram shrugs, breaking away from his eyes and fidgeting with the scrapes on his knuckles instead, looking down. “Don’t do that, they’ll open again.”_

_“I’m sure,” says Ram, his voice coming out stronger than he thought it would be._

_“I sleep on the left side of the bed,” says King, dragging the blanket up with him and trailing it behind him into the room. He looks over his shoulder, pushing the door to his bedroom open with his foot. “What about you, Ai Ning?”_

_Ram doesn’t have the heart to tell him that he sleeps on the left side of the bed as well. His fists unclench themselves back out into open palms, still rough, about to open his mouth to say that he sleeps on the right side, but King can somehow read him. He smiles and says, “You sleep on the left too, right? I can see it in your eyes.” He ends on a little laugh, before continuing with, “C’mon, then, we’ll Rock Paper Scissors it out.”_

_King ends up winning, but lets him have the left side anyway. When Ram settles into bed, his head resting against the world’s softest pillow, King smacks him in the face with what appears to be a cactus plushie. His smile is radiant as he gets into bed as well, tugging the blankets over himself. “My sister gave me that when I was young after the dog bit me,” he says, turning to look at him, head resting on his hand. “I’ve kept it after all these years. Nostalgia, I guess. You can have it for tonight.”_

_Ram swallows as he tucks the plushie underneath his arm, laying down further into bed as King turns the light off and the room envelops them into darkness. “Goodnight, Cool Boy,” he says. Ram makes out the shape of his outline lit by the moonlight, and he supposes King sleeps on his side, facing him._

_He inhales, and reaches a calloused hand out to brush a thumb against King’s shoulder. “Sleep well,” he says, very quietly, and closes his eyes._

_The next morning, they’re still on their respective sides of the bed. King looks like a child when he sleeps, almost angelic. Ram’s hand is still impossibly on his shoulder._

“You’re smiling, stupid,” says P’Bank, shaking him out of the memory. He leans back against his chair, arms crossed, knowing smile on his face. Ram can’t muster up the energy to hate him. “Who was it? That boy, Duen?”

Ram snorts, shaking his head. He curls up against himself, pressing deeper into the wall like that would make him disappear, or not need to talk about it. He unclenches his fists, hands still as rough as always, the way they’ve been rough all his life. “His, uh,” he starts, clearing his throat. He swallows. “His name’s King.”

“King,” says P’Bank, letting the name roll off his tongue. He uncrosses his arms, scotting forward a little bit so his knees are pressed against the edge of the bed. “How old is he?”

Silence. 

“C’mon, N'Ram, aren’t you gonna give me at least a little bit to go on?” asks P’Bank, and it’s in moments like this when he reverts back into his younger self, voice getting all high and whiny. “Please? Throw me a bone? Half a bone? N'Ram—maybe just a quarter of a bone? Just a chip off a bone?”

Silence.

“Are you gonna bring him to the gym so we can meet him?” asks P’Bank, head resting on his hand as he props himself up with his elbow on his knee. Ram tilts his head at him and his mind flashes a scenario in front of his eyes. Tugging King into the gym in the gentlest way he knows how—maybe his hands could even be soft for the day—and the overwhelming feeling that would envelop the both of them as he shows him the boxing ring, some of the edges still flaking off, tiny paint chips littering the floor; the old boxing bags that they tore down when the budget approved new ones, but they never had the heart to let them go; the mantel on the wall proudly displaying all of their trophies, around half of them belonging to Ram; everyone he grew up with hanging around perched on the chairs and the edges of the ring, sitting on the floor and stuffing themselves with pizza as they pester them with pointless questions; making them get into boxing gear and go for a playful spar in the ring. Ram knows first-hand exactly what would happen, in what order—too many times has someone from the gym brought in someone new. P’Bank likes to call it the Gym Test, joking about how the person can stay if they survive the amount of questions and formidable annoyance that the gym provides, free of cost. An unbidden picture of King, shirtless, with boxing gloves on, dashes to the forefront of his mind. 

He clears his throat, fighting to keep the blush down. “ _No_ ,” he says, pushing himself off the bed, the wounds stretching and aching against his skin. His robe flutters behind him as P’Bank chases him all the way back out into the gym. 

“ _N'Ram_ ,” he says, and Ram doesn’t need to turn around to know that he’s got an evil little grin on his face. “Can’t we meet your friends?”

Ram discards the robe onto a chair, waving at Namtan from across the gym and jerking his head at the ring. She bounds up to him, hands on her hips. P’Bank pops out from behind her back. “Namtan!” he says, and Ram’s eyes blow wide, and before he can stop him, he leans forward and says, “Don’t you wanna meet N'Ram’s friends from uni?”

She punches Ram in the shoulder. “Yes! I have been asking you for _ages_ to bring some of your friends to the gym! I brought my girlfriend, it’s your turn,” she says, and Ram crosses his arms, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. In truth, he wouldn’t be opposed to bringing someone in, having them stumble over the last step leading up into the gym, the walls coming down. All these years, he’s only brought his parents and brother into the gym. But with Duen following him here, and his hand having stayed on King’s shoulder all night—maybe someone following him in here, seeing him box in the ring, his easy friendship with P’Bank and Namtan, and everyone else in here… maybe it wouldn’t be so earth-shattering after all.

He shrugs, trying not to smile. “I’ll think about it,” he says, pushing past them, leaving them utterly speechless. The smile comes out when P’Bank lets out a scream so loud it nearly rocks the whole gym, and he jumps into the ring.

* * *

Ram does think about it, for once.

The memory of him with his hand on King’s shoulder all night, without a single complaint from him. He remembers, still, the way his hand eased into its position on King’s shoulder; the way King woke up with a little smile, reaching his hand up to pat Ram’s. Like the way his hand was on his shoulder was… normal. Ram sighs, dropping his pencil against the rest of his papers at the bench he’s sitting on. He prefers to study outside, the walls of the library closing in on him too often. Here, outside, the trees rustle in the wind and the grass moves against his feet, and he can listen to the birds chirp as he fills in his worksheets. 

Hope nags somewhere inside of him, as always, that King will come find him. As if on cue, a familiar voice shouts, “Ai Ning!” 

Ram doesn’t have to look up to know that King is walking down towards him, so he keeps his eyes trained on his worksheets until a shadow falls upon them. King slides in on the bench opposite from him, brushing the hair out of his eyes in the way that makes goosebumps rise alongside the length of Ram’s skin. “Are you studying?” he asks, eyes lighting up. “Is that the study plan I made for you?”

Ram jerks his head in a nod, closing the textbooks shut and packing them into his bag. King looks up at him, faint questioning behind his eyes, but he stands up with him, tucking his bag around his shoulder. “Where are we going?” he asks, leaning in further than is healthy for Ram’s heart. “Are you gonna take me out to lunch?”

His hand automatically reaches out to tug at King’s wrist, but he stops himself at the last second. His hands are rough. He clenches and unclenches, before gingerly reaching out and taking his hand in his, instead. King turns to him with wide eyes, his breath hitching audibly. Ram doesn’t interlink their fingers, but he does hold on tighter. “Uh,” says King, and Ram swallows and is about to pull away, going to wipe his hands down on his jeans and pretend like nothing happened, but King squeezes their joined hands once, and everything shifts back into place. “This is a nice change of pace, Cool Boy.”

“Come on,” he mumbles under his breath, drawing him in the direction of his bike. He’s not particularly thinking about anything, but he does know that he likes the way King falls into step next to him instead of behind him, when he’s normally tugging on his wrist. King uses his free hand to right his bag, letting go of his hand once they reach his bike, settling himself on the back. Ram finds himself missing the warmth of it already, the way it changes the pattern of his heartbeat. 

“Where are you taking me?” asks King, as Ram hauls himself over the seat and kicks the stand up, pedaling them down the road. He shrugs, nodding at the road. It’s testament, he realises, to how much King _trusts_ him that he just gets on his bike and lets him take them down anywhere at all. He wonders, idly, if King knows how to fight, before shaking himself back out of his thoughts and focuses on the road. “Okay, wait, let me guess. Your parents’ house? Wait, that wouldn’t make sense. Uh—”

Ram makes a clicking sound underneath his breath as they come to a stop at a red light. “You’ll see,” he says softly, eyes on the light. 

“Patience is not a virtue of mine,” says King, settling his hands around Ram’s waist, again, as if they belong there. Ram is getting used to the fire that his touch spreads throughout his skin, making little divets into his body. “But, okay, I’ll wait.”

He starts humming a song underneath his breath, hands tightening their hold on Ram when they swerve too left or right. Suddenly, Ram realises there’s so much he doesn’t know about King, and how much he’s willing to learn. He wants so badly to ask what the song he’s humming is called, but the wind is too loud in his ears and he saves it for another day, fear choking up in his chest. The thing about King is that he talks, but in a way that makes you want to listen, and listen, and listen. Somewhere along all the plants and his nephews and the love he holds for everyone around him, Ram finds himself wishing that King would talk about himself. He longs to ask, but he’s scared. To be gentle, to touch, to ask. As they pull up by the gym, the same way his father and he did years ago, the same shoddy front and the same run-down appearance, the same apprehension comes up in his throat.

“Is this your gym?” asks King, looking up at the sign. Ram looks at him and realises what he’s been afraid of all this time. Judgement, distaste, disgust. King looks up at the sign with a kind of childlike wonder that Ram can’t even begin to take in. King turns back to him and a soft smile pulls up at the corner of his mouth, and Ram is already cataloguing it away in his mind into a quickly exponentially expanding folder of _King Smiles_. King slips his hand into Ram’s, fingers stll not intertwined, but the most intimate thing Ram has ever experienced. “Thanks for bringing me here, Ai Ning.”

Ram swallows and smiles, squeezing his hand. ‘Thank _you_ ,’ he thinks he’s trying to say. He opens the door and laughs a little as King stumbles over the last step, just like he’d called it. Ram’s been in here so many times that his eyes don’t have to adjust to the light anymore, but King blinks, holding onto his hand a little tighter. Before he can muster up the courage to say anything, maybe about the first time he came to the gym, or the people here, or why he brought him here, P’Bank runs over with a shout.

“N'Ram brought a _friend!_ ” he says, piercing through the stuffy air of the gym. The punching stops, almost comically, and people are crawling out of the cracks, ducking out of the ring and shedding their gloves, pushing their hands back through sweat-slicked hair. Ram lets go of King’s hand almost regretfully as P’Bank comes closer and shakes King’s hand furiously, between his own two clasped hands. King looks at Ram, eyes wide, and he simply shrugs in return, tiny smile present on his face. “Hi! I’m P’Bank, I own the gym! Who are you? What’s your name?”

“Um, I’m King,” he replies, shaking his hand. “Ram’s P’. And friend.”

Namtan pops up, arms crossed and looking at King with scrunched up eyes. Ram’s eyes flit around the room, everyone keeping at bay but still curious, whispering amongst themselves. Ram’s friendly with everyone, having built up a reputation for being quiet but boxing with anyone who wants to box with him, being a little afraid of kids but helping them out with their stances anyway. Ram has been a part of his gym, a pillar as much as anyone else, and he realises the respect they have for him, all of a sudden. “Ram’s never brought a friend here before,” says Namtan, with a cocked eyebrow, a challenge.

King snaps his eyes to Ram, who pretends to be interested in the dirt on the floor very well. The flush rises up to his cheeks and he knows he’s in for it the next time he comes to the gym. “I guess… uh, I’m special, then?” says King, eyes roaming around the place. “Woah, holy shit, are those all your trophies?”

“Yes!” says P’Bank, gesturing for them to wander over there. There is a swell of affection that bursts up into Ram’s chest when he sees King walk over, head craning up to look at the amounts of certificates and trophies, eyes bright like a puppy. “Look, these are the ones that N’Ram won in competitions, and these are an assortment of others that the gym has accumulated over time!”

King nudges Ram with his elbow. “You go to competitions?” he asks. Ram shrugs, inclining his head in a yes, and King lights up, squeezing his forearm. “Dude, you _have_ to take me next time!”

“You haven’t seen Ram box?” asks Namtan, hands on her hips again. Ram has to suppress a laugh; Namtan could probably knock King out if she really wanted to, always challenging everyone who walks in here.

King puts a hand on his chin. “Once,” he says, a little laugh after it. Ram thinks the way he smiles at King laughing goes unnoticed, but out of the corner of his eye, he sees Namtan pull back, nodding at him. In a lot of ways, Ram and Namtan are alike—quiet, protective, reclusive, love their friends, and seeing her uncross her arms and her stance turn into something warmer, more welcoming, only makes the emotion sitting in Ram’s throat grow. “But it wasn’t really, like, a proper match.”

“You _wanna_ see him box?” asks Namtan, raising an eyebrow at King again. Ram widens her eyes at King turns to her, slicing the air next to his throat to let her know that she needs to stop. 

But the way King lights up and grins makes the action half-hearted, and Namtan can tell, from the way she smiles. P’Bank is already throwing him his gym bag that lies in a corner, normally, and Ram knows he has no choice anymore. He nods at King, hesitant to leave him even for a second, but he watches for a minute as he introduces himself to the younger kids, kneeling down to talk to them, brushing the hair out of his face. Ram swallows and ducks back into the changing rooms. He sheds his shirt, hanging it up on a peg, his hands shaking again. He’s boxed in front of King before, the stupid fight with Bohn coming up to mind, but never in a way that was any serious. It’s just a simple box with Namtan. He changes into shorts and grabs his gloves from the locker, eyes drifting for just a second onto the pictures. _I need a picture of King,_ he thinks, and smiles despite himself. 

“I am not letting you get in the ring without warming up,” says P’Bank, wagging a finger at him when he comes back out. Ram curls in on himself, drawing his arms over his chest. He doesn’t dare to look at King, not heads on at least. He catches him sitting with Namtan out of the corner of the eye, all the kids gathered around him on the floor, which Ram should probably sweep soon. “He’s fine. We aren’t scaring him off too much. Namtan’s already all warmed up, just go do your stretches.”

Ram’s eyes stay focused on the floor as he jogs on the spot, stretching his muscles out before getting in the ring. King—right across the room, talking to Namtan and the kids like he’s grown up here all his life, embedded into the walls like all of the memories Ram’s got here. Ram—bringing him to the gym, _shirtless_ , about to box Namtan in the ring like it’s just something he does every day. Like boxing—something that has always been a source of comfort to him since he was young—in front of people from different aspects of his lives is something he does every day. He blinks the moisture out of his eyes and stands up, signing over at Namtan, who slides her gloves on over her bandage tape and jumps into the ring, as the kids cheer in the background, like it’s a professional boxing match that they watch on the little TV from time to time. Ram smiles as one of them shouts his name, waving to the little kid, sliding into the ring himself, tape already wrapped tight around his hands in a way that is so familiar to him that he doesn’t even need to look down at his hands to know the proper movements anymore. Namtan pokes her tongue out at him, tugging her headgear on. Someone tosses him his own headgear and Ram sets it down over his head, teeth worrying his lip. It restricts his peripheral vision, so he can’t make sure King is still there, and if he’s okay.

“Ready, old man?” she asks, and Ram raises an eyebrow. He’s only a year and a bit older than her, and she refuses to give him any respect and call him P’. “You better bring it.”

Before Ram can spit out some kind of fond comeback, P’Bank brandishes the dusty microphone they keep in the backroom and says, “Welcome one and welcome all to today’s non-official spar! In the ring we have newbie Namtan, give it up for her!” 

Ram leans against the ropes, watching as Namtan punches her fists in the air, egging the kids and other teenagers and uni students who are a part of their run-down gym on. Ram knows that technically, a boxing gym doesn’t have this many people. But the membership is dirt cheap and it attracts a lot of younger kids and kids from poorer families, giving them a space to come in and work out their feelings. Ram used to be terrible with kids back in the day, but as more and more started flooding in, wanting just to be like him, their stance squared and their punches thrown out correctly, he learned to kneel down and fix their shoulders, tucking their elbows in and wrapping bandage tape over their hands to keep their punches aligned. It went from Ram as a kid and cheering P’Bank in the ring on to him in the ring, watching as Namtan gets the kids riled up. The air is still the same.

“And competing against her today, we have our gym’s golden boy, Ram Vera! Half of the trophies on the wall are his, y’all, if he loses this one, then I will be incredibly disappointed,” he says, winking at Ram and pulling away from the megaphone. “No pressure, N’Ram.”

Ram pushes himself off the ropes, waving at the kids. It’s this part of the match where he never knows what to do. Once the whistle goes off and he’s checking his opponent out, piercing the tension in the air, it settles down around his shoulders like a blanket. He knows what to do. But the second just before, when the crowd—admittedly his family at the gym—goes wild, he never knows how to act. Ram knows he isn’t a hero. He’s never wanted to be a hero. He’s in it for the thrill of the fight, the adrenaline coursing through his veins in a way that is safe, and doesn’t end in blood. He turns, just minutely, and catches a glimpse of King, his face pressed up against the ropes. He grins when Ram meets his eyes, nodding and sending him a thumbs up. Ram turns back to Namtan, who has a knowing look written all over her face. 

“Shut up,” he mumbles, and Namtan holds up her hands.

“Hey,” she says, smirking. “Never said anything.”

“We’re just going to have three rounds of two minutes,” shouts P’Bank through his megaphone. “Amateur stuff, kids. I know you two usually have specific moves you try to practice, but focus on getting each other on the ground just for this spar. We’re making an exception, okay?”

They both jerk their heads up at P’Bank, who blows the whistle for the first round. Ram’s lips clench around his mouthguard as he raises his fists, circling around the ring. Namtan checks the air with a couple of jabs and blows, almost erratic in the way she fights. Ram feints and catches a blow in her ribs, jerking her backwards. The air is hot in Ram’s ears as the adrenaline settles around his shoulders like it’s meant to be there, different in the way it settles. As she’s caught backwards, taking more than a split second to bounce back, Ram uppercuts a quick blow to her chin. With another punch to the ribs, she’s down, landing on the ground for more than three seconds before Ram holds out his hand to her, pulling her back up. “Too easy,” he says.

“Just getting warmed up,” she says, wiping the sweat off her forehead. The whistle blows again as Namtan stumbles onto her feet, winking at P’Bank.

“Don’t wink at me,” he says through the megaphone. “That was, like, thirty seconds. You can do better.”

“Gotta make Ram look good.”

P’Bank snorts. “He doesn’t need your help for that,” he says, and it’s good that Ram can’t turn to look at King to see his reaction to the first round. “Go again! Round two, and use the full two minutes, N’Namtan.”

The whistle blows again. This time, Namtan lunges, going directly for the offense and trying to get him pressed up against the ropes before he can do anything himself. He ducks out of reach before playing defense, heart hammering in his chest, not because of the adrenaline this time. Namtan uppercuts him, feigning another blow he anticipates, ducking back out of reach and spinning on his heel to redirect the spar. He goes in for the ribs, and then the cheek. She takes a hit, and another, but doesn’t go down, sweat pooling on her skin as she tries to catch him off guard. Ram’s been boxing for years. No matter what distractions are in place, no matter the way King has his heart hammering in his chest, no matter the fact that he’s _here_ , in his gym, touched with little aspects of his true character, his head is in the game when his head is in the game. The movements come like second nature, another skin. He dances out of Namtan’s reach, back on the offense as he focuses himself on this moment. Before he can strike out again, the whistle goes again.

“That time was two minutes!” says P’Bank with a smile. “Last round, idiots. Two minutes, let’s go.”

The whistle blows. 

In this moment, Ram knows what he needs to do. As always, when he comes into the ring, time slows down. He becomes the little kid who got into too many fights again, not knowing how to touch in a way that mattered. In the ring, all of that falls away. He squares his shoulders and tucks his elbows in, going on the offense immediately. Ram feints, throwing a punch with his right and then landing with his left. That throws Namtan back, stumbling into the ropes. She bounces back, Ram decks her under the chin. She lands a punch against his cheek. He hisses through his teeth— 

_—and suddenly he’s back, two memories fading into one. A child, his first fight, knees scraped with blood and dirt staining his wounds, knuckles split wide open. A glint in his eyes that scared him when he looked at himself in the mirror. Something he fought out at the double end bags every Saturday, slowly coming in every day so the scrapes healed and the bruises were just from spars, nothing else. Every punch to the stomach, he took, and gave right back. The way the need to punch the lockers shrunk to just a simmer in his stomach._

_—and suddenly he’s back, two memories fading into one. King cleaning up his wounds, dabbing at the blood. He thought he’d gotten better, but under the lights of King’s apartment and the warmth that had coursed through his veins when King sat him down and patched him up with no questions, able to read just the blink of his eye, Ram thinks maybe relapse doesn’t necessarily have to mean failure. The Spider-Man Band-Aid over a wound and a promise to be better._

—and he lands the last punch.

Namtan flies to the ground and Ram is hauling her back up. The whistle rings in his ears, muffled by his own blood pounding through his body, as they slip out of the ring to people shaking them against each other. Namtan grins at him, taking the mouthguard out. “Not bad for an old man,” she says, punching him in the shoulder with her lightly bruised fists. She unwraps the tape and goes to sit down on the bench, the kids following her. Ram keeps his own eyes trained on the other bench, shedding the gloves and unwrapping the tape, wincing. He stretches his calves against the bench, before he’s being smacked in the head with something again.

“Need some water?” asks King, sitting down on the bench and uncapping the bottle for him. Ram swivels back around to sit down next to him, accepting the bottle and taking a swig. “You were good. I mean, I don’t know much about boxing, but you did good.”

Ram puts the bottle down and grabs a towel to wipe some of the sweat off his back and neck. King looks at him, like this is the first time he’s ever _seen_ him, and Ram supposes this is the first time he’s ever let someone properly see him, after all. The gym has become his home, throughout all points in his life. “This is where you grew up then, Cool Boy?” he says, looking around and settling back with a grin. “It’s pretty neat.” He pokes Ram’s boxing gloves. “Do you need to wear the tape thing underneath those as well?”

It’s that when Ram realises that King’s trying to know him. King already knows that Ram loves dogs, and is at home with them, empty without his dogs with him. King knows that he’s quiet, constantly struggling to find the right words. King knows that Ram rarely asks for help and is stupidly protective of his friends and likes his instant noodles with too much water. In the same way, Ram knows that King is attentive to everything he does, from taking care of his plants to helping juniors with their homework to studying Ram’s behaviour. He knows King carries a bag around with him with books, and bandages, and a calculator. He knows that King just got on the bike with him without expecting an answer to any of his questions, mere trust in his every action. All his life, Ram’s sorted his life into neat little boxes, keeping this and that seperate for fear that people will get too close, so much so that they end up not liking what they see. None of his friends from school or university have ever visited the gym, except Duen, when he followed him, and now King. The trophies on the mantel, and the amount of bandage tape he keeps in his backpack, and the two pictures in the locker—all stay seperate from who he is in university. Ram swallows. Maybe it’s okay to be known.

“Yeah, gotta keep your punches straight,” he says, swallowing again and clearing his throat. “Uh, I could show you sometime, if you wanted.”

King looks at him, all wide eyes and mouth slightly open. Ram tears his eyes away and clenches his hands around the edge of the bench again. After a moment, King says, “I am weak as fuck, but we can give it a go.”

Ram laughs, suspending King into strange silence. He swallows it back into himself, remembering the song King was humming on the bike. There is no right moment, nothing better than this one, anyway. He’s said so much already, but he keeps pushing. “That song…” he starts, “the one you were humming on the bike. What—what’s it called?”

“I’ll bike us back to my apartment and I’ll show you,” says King, like it’s nothing, but everything at the same time. “We can go over your study plan for fnals. I even have soup packets we can make ourselves.”

Ram smiles, playing with the tape. He looks up over at the boxing ring, paint still chipping off the sides, and the trophies lined up and dusted every week, and the bags hanging from the ceilings. There are gloves strewn across the floor, and the ground needs sweeping, and it’s probably time for P’Bank—who’s fallen asleep at his desk with all the paperwork sticking up around him—to organise another deep cleaning day to repaint the ring and to mop the floor up. Maybe it’s time for a new sign, maybe it’s time for them to wash the windows, and maybe it’s time to fix the step that makes everyone stumble upon coming into the gym. 

King points out a picture on the wall. “Is that little you?” he teases, his hand falling over Ram’s for a purpose. He brushes his thumb against the back of his hand. In that moment, Ram realises it doesn’t matter if he doesn’t know how to touch King with rough hands. King’s gentle ones make up for it, and Ram will keep trying, the same way he did as a kid when he worked all of his frustrations out onto the double end bags and in the ring, working to become someone who didn’t end up in too many unjustified fights in alleyways and walking back out with purpling bruises and scrapes with blood leaking out of them. In a fit of courage, he moves his hand over King’s and interlinks their fingers together in the middle of the gym.

The beam King gives him, as well as his own weight lifting off of his shoulders, makes it all worth it. 

**Author's Note:**

> alright, i know they're my characters, but i would actually die for p'bank and namtan. 
> 
> let me know what you thought, friends! i hope you enjoyed all of this in some capacity. if you would like to see more of ram in this little universe with his family at the gym, or just wanna chat, then shoot me an ask over on my [tumblr!](https://petekaos.tumblr.com) consider leaving a comment or a kudos if you liked this one :')
> 
> stay safe! <3


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